


Choke

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-04
Updated: 2008-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester gets sick, but Brad couldn't care less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choke

Mike makes him go see a doctor and after hearing the word ‘reschedule’ in the same sentence as ‘the rest of the tour’ he goes, reluctantly, dragging his heels all the way. They take his temperature, his blood pressure, they make him use a peak flow meter, they make him cough whilst they press the cold metal of the stethoscope to his back.

Tracheobronchitis. A bag full of codeine and antibiotics and the promise not to exert himself in anyway for a few days and Mike’s worried looks as he trudges out of the doctor’s surgery.

“They said I have to rest. Any exercise, it could make it worse.”

Mike eyes the bag of medication warily.

And Chester shrugs, “Treatable symptoms.” He says, and heads toward the car.

***

Brad is smoking in the hotel room when he gets back. Chester slings the bag of pills on the bed and pulls of his jacket. “Put that out.”

“What you got, AIDS?” Brad asks, stubbing the cigarette out on the bedside table, flicking the stub into the trash can across the room.

Chester says nothing. He pulls his bag out from under the bed and starts packing his things back into it. He can feel the guitarist’s angry glare on his back as he shuffles into the bathroom for his toiletries.

“Hey.” Brad hisses. “Did you not hear me, or what?”

“I’ve been told to rest my voice.”

He’ll pay, later, for being so audacious. But by now Brad knows they’re cancelling some shows, he knows that until Chester gets better all they can do is sit at home and bide their time. So for now no fists are raised.

Still, he feels the need to kick Chester whilst he is down, says, “Whatever. You brought this all on yourself anyway. What’d you expect all the drugs would do to you?”

They don’t talk about it. Sometimes for lyric writing purposes, or in interviews. But never in casual conversation. Because what happened in Arizona stays in Arizona, and in Chester’s memories. He doesn’t look up from where he is methodically packing his things into his wash-bag, “At the time I didn’t see myself living past my twenty first birthday, let alone my thirty first, so fuck you.”

That’s at least two beatings Brad owes him now, for anybody who is keeping score.

Chester steps back into the main room and zips up his bag in silence. It’s hard to breathe, and the smoke left over from Brad’s cigarette catches in his throat and he coughs. Sitting on the edge of the bed he lowers his head between his legs and coughs uncontrollably, feeling like his lungs are being slashes apart by razorblades. He gasps for breath in between coughs, sitting up and closing his eyes tightly.

The coughing fit subsides and he takes a deep, wheezing breath, stars exploding in front of his eyes.

And Brad says, “Are you done? We have to go.”

***

The house is cold. That’s the first thing he notices. Everything is like ice.

Brad shoves him forward into the house roughly and throws down his bag. “Home sweet fucking home.” He says, digs a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one up leaving a trail of smoke behind him as he disappears upstairs.

Chester stifles a cough and heads out into the back yard, standing on the patio and staring out across the garden nobody has tended to since they left. He’d wanted to hire a gardener but Brad had laughed, said, “They’re fucking plants, Chaz. Let them die.”

He sits on the bench. The one thing in this house that he actually owns. He never should have moved in here, but love makes you crazy and…whatever.

He coughs again and it sounds like somebody trying to blow bubbles in custard. And Brad, who is always there with the right thing to say at the right time, appears in the doorway and rolls his eyes, “Gross,” he says, throws a bottle of water and some codeine in Chester’s general direction.

The water, he catches. The pill bottle, though, he misses and it hits the concrete with a crack, pills rolling away and into the grass. Chester watches them go tiredly, wishing he cared.

Brad laughs, “Fucking idiot.” He says. “Pick them up and get inside.”

***

His chest feels like somebody has stamped on it, but that doesn’t stop Brad pushing him to his knees.

Above the sound of Chester’s pained wheezing all that can be heard is Brad unfastening his belt.

Chester takes a deep, rattling breath and wraps his mouth around Brad’s erection, sucking lightly and trying not to gag when the guitarist forces himself deeper into his throat. It’s going fine but then he starts to cough and he can’t stop. And it’s that custard sound again.

He pulls away and coughs into his cupped hands, his entire body shuddering.

Brad looks down at him scowling, “Are you joking me here?” He snaps, fastening his pants back up.

Chester can’t answer, can’t breathe, can barely stay conscious.

And Brad doesn’t help. He storms out of the room, slamming the door after him. His heavy, angry footsteps on the stairs remind Chester that whatever he said, or did, it was never fucking right anymore.

***

He barely sleeps. It’s too hot. He can’t breathe. Every time he closes his eyes the nightmares begin and he jerks awake, Brad behind him muttering, “Shut the fuck up, Chester, or go sleep in the fucking guest room.”

At six in the morning he gets up and goes downstairs. His entire body aches from coughing, pulled muscles in places he didn’t know he could pull muscles. He stands at the kitchen window and takes slow, steady breaths the way the doctor showed him.

Probably he should be checking the website, apologising to the fans, but he’s too tired. And hours later when Brad pads downstairs, Chester is still standing at the window, staring.

Brad stands behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. “I googled tracheobronchitis.” He says. “Turns out you can only get it in dogs.”

Chester says nothing as Brad’s hold tightens mercilessly.

“So either you’re lying to me, or you’re mistaken.”

“M’not lying.”

“Yes.” Brad says. “You are.”

Later, Mike drives Chester to the hospital with two cracked ribs and he coughs the entire way there.

But for now, Brad just tightens his grip.


End file.
